


Scheherazade

by Ergott



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Always-a-girl!Stiles, BAMF!Stiles, Beta Derek, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy!Kink, Dominance and Submission, Dubious Consent, Expanded pack mythos, F/M, Fem!Stiles in distress, Peter Hale being himself, Possessive Behavior, Rule63!Sheriff, Rule63!Stiles, Scent Marking, Slow Build, elements of non-con, season one AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergott/pseuds/Ergott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles had never really contemplated the full danger that having a rogue Alpha in Scott’s life represented to her. She’d worried about Scott, of course, analyzed his options from every conceivable angle, but she’d never thought about her own situation. And she really should have-- she was a hundred and twenty pounds of fragile flesh and bone that could be manipulated and hurt in all sorts of ways that would haunt Scott to his grave. She knew that she was a liability to him, a weak chink in the wolfy armor that could be exploited."</p>
<p>***<br/>Season One AU- Set during the Garage Scene from 1X12 (Code Breaker), Fem!Stiles has a particularly severe panic attack. Maybe it's instinct or an emotion as banal as sympathy, but something about her distress appeals to Peter and he suddenly finds himself thinking about the girl as far more than a handy tool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scheherazade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ceris_Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/gifts).



> Just to reiterate, this story begins during the S1 garage scene between Peter and Stiles, features a rule63!Stiles and Sheriff, and a profoundly disturbed Peter who can’t quite reconcile his new Alpha instincts with the man he thought the fire had transformed him into.
> 
> About the tags: I will probably add tags as I go along so that I don’t accidentally promise things that later don’t make it into the story. Also, I wanted to take this opportunity to discuss two of the probably more triggery tags: elements of non-con and the daddy!kink. The non-con never develops into a fully sexualized issue- there is NO penetrative rape in this story, though there are mentions and thinly veiled threats of it. There’s some dub-con touching and cuddling, but that’s really the worst of it. As to the daddy!kink, it starts off as a sort of genuine paternal instinct that then becomes skewed into a sexual light because Peter’s seriously got all his wires crossed on the moral front. If either of these elements make you uncomfortable or upset, please do not read this story.

**Scheherazade**

_“Learn and spin,_

_Tell your tale,_

_Bend and twist,_

_Your life is frail.”_

Stiles had never really contemplated the full danger that having a rogue Alpha in Scott’s life represented to her. She’d worried about  _Scott_ , of course, analyzed  _his_  options from every conceivable angle, but she’d never thought about her own situation. And she  _really_  should have- she was a hundred and twenty pounds of fragile flesh and bone that could be manipulated and hurt in all sorts of ways that would haunt Scott to his grave. She knew that she was a liability to him, a weak chink in the wolfy armor that could be exploited.

So when Peter had kidnapped her, she’d assumed the worst: her life for Scott’s. It wan’t until the older man revealed his true intentions that Stiles realized her idea of worst didn’t even come  _close_  to matching his. He wanted her to betray Scott. And, yeah okay, it was in service of rescuing Derek from torture at the hands of crazy amoral hunters, but  _still_. She barely tolerated Derek on a good day and Scott was her brother- it wasn’t of a hard decision to make.

But that didn’t mean she was any less frightened about making it.

“I’m telling the truth,” she asserted, painfully aware of the hysterical note threading her words, “I swear!” But her heart was already skipping over the shoddy lie, and she knew he could hear it. Hell, her panicked tone alone probably gave her away. And knowing that Peter knew somehow made it all the worse, made her heart pound faster and her breath escape her. 

Peter Hale was an  _exceptionally_  dangerous man: a newly minted, mentally unstable Alpha obsessed with revenge. And maybe he deserved that, maybe that vendetta was his right, but now she was in his way. A breakable young girl standing alone against a werewolf that had proven he had no moral compunction when it came to eliminating obstacles- the sight of Lydia’s savaged body was still fresh in her mind and that was  _more_  than proof enough.

Yet still, she forced the lie out.

“Stiles,” he said her name calmly, carefully, but in that single utterance was a whole world of emotion. Peter knew she was lying and he was quickly growing impatient. 

It would only take the work of a second for him to reach out and slice her open. She’d be dead before she even hit the ground, and that was only if he was  _merciful_. He could toy with her the way he had toyed with the man from the bus, the school janitor, the video store clerk- he could hunt her down and leave her alive just long enough to regret having crossed his path. 

The thought unnerved her, made her already shaky breath begin to stutter. “I don’t know it, I  _don’t_ –”

Before she could even finish wheezing out the lie, she was slammed down onto the trunk of the dead nurse’s car. Peter’s hand was a tight band around the back of her neck, but unlike the time Derek had grabbed her in anger, Peter’s grip wasn’t too tight or too strong. His strength was measured, precise and controlled, a well executed move that left no room for the heat of emotion. That deliberate concession to her obvious inferiority, the terrible dichotomy between his passionless brutality and cruelly gentle strength horrified her. 

Stiles’ mouth gaped open, choking on air as her hands scrabbled uselessly against the slick metal hood. Her thoughts raced wildly, stuttering as her throat convulsed around nothing. She was going to die, ripped to bloody ribbons of dead meat, reduced to glassy eyes and pallid flesh for her mother to find. And that  _wasn’t_  okay, because her mother would never stop  _grieving_. Her heart sped up at the thought and then sadistically seized, squeezing the air from her lungs and turning her choked coughs into something a lot more desperate.

Maybe it was the pathetic scramble to be free or simply predator's instinct, but suddenly Peter was draping himself over her prone body, solid male muscle crushing into terrified female flesh. His face loomed over her shoulder, close enough for her to see the hint of red bleeding into his eyes, but it wasn’t anger that she found in those depths. 

“I can be very  _persuasive_ , Stiles,” Peter purred, his voice oddly gentle, but there was a hint of claw digging into the back of her neck and his grip was beginning to tighten unforgivably. “Don’t make me persuade you.”

Stiles knew that the world was sometimes an ugly place, especially for young women. How could she not, when she was the only daughter of a female Sheriff? Her mother had taught her a long time ago how a naive or unprepared girl could be taken advantage of. Stiles had been schooled from a very young age how to protect herself. Her mother had shown her the basics of small firearms, concealed weapons, how to disarm or break free of an attacker, and how to scream ‘fire’ instead of ‘help’ in order to draw nearby attention. And above all it had always been clear that rape wasn’t a matter of lust or desire, but was a desperate grab for control and power, and that if she ever found herself the victim of such an attack she had to remember that it was not her fault, that she did not deserve it. 

None of that knowledge helped her now, not pinned under an  _Alpha_. She had no leverage, no way of breaking out of his hold, there wasn’t anyone in the garage to hear a cry of ‘fire’, and this situation was  _totally_  her fault. She could stop this whole train-wreck if she just told Peter what he wanted to know. And yet, even facing the terrifying reality of physical violation and bloody dismemberment, she still refused to betray Scott.

Stiles clawed at the hood, glossy paint chipping up and digging painfully under her fingernails. Her elbow flailed out, catching the edge of Peter’s laptop and sending it crashing loudly to the concrete floor. She couldn’t breathe, her lungs locked in a painful spasm as her heart wildly pumped more blood than she had oxygen for. Her eyes felt wet as her vision began to narrow and dim. There was an endless litany in her head of thoughts like, ‘Not for my first time’, ‘God, never like this’, and ‘I don’t want to die’, and they grew more fierce as her world turned black.

For what felt like a small eternity- she couldn’t really be sure how long -her senses stopped receiving and she was  _trapped_  in a prison of numb flesh with nothing but her panicked brain screaming out her worst fears. When reality finally started filtering back in for her, it did so in slow and staggered steps.

The first thing she became aware of was that they were both sitting on the cold cement ground. Peter was resting against the bumper of the car, his legs outstretched so that he could cradle Stiles, her back pressed firmly to his chest. He had one arm wrapped securely around her waist, while the other wound over her arm and across her torso in order to spread his broad hand against the prominence of her collarbones. His thumb was resting firmly in the hollow of her throat, gently flirting with the beat of her pulse, and it struck her then that he was holding her in place not cruelly, as before, but as though he were afraid she might hurt herself.

Then the pain started: a deep aching smolder in her chest and a searing burn in her throat, and she knew it was from lack of oxygen but her lungs still wouldn’t cooperate. Stiles felt hot tears sliding freely down her cheeks, unforgiving trails of live fire that she quickly forgot about when her body involuntarily tried to sob. The noise exploded in her throat like shards of glass, her muscles seizing and spine desperately trying to bow as the pain wracked through her. Throughout the intolerable spasm she became aware of her hands, how they were both fisted tightly on Peter’s legs, her paint-scraped and bloody nails tearing through the fabric of his slacks to dig at his skin. Yet he didn’t snarl and slap her away; if anything he seemed to be encouraging her to work through the spasm, holding her close and steady.

Peter held her firm, supportively, his breathing deep and even, almost meditative in its soothing regularity. His chin was cradled on her shoulder, and the vibration Stiles felt from his throat made her realize he was speaking to her. His voice was soft and steady, a deep rumble that was at once both soothing and coaxing. She couldn’t make out his words, she was too drained to really try, but his unwavering tone gave her something safe to focus on. 

“Just breathe, sweetheart. You’re alright; everything is going to be okay. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re going to be fine. Just breathe. Can you do that for me? Focus on me, honey. I’ve got you and you’re safe. Breathe, baby. Come on, you can do this.”

It was a calm litany of encouragement, and it helped so much more than it should have given its source. Her first staggering breath was both heaven and hell, sweet relief and agonizing torture, and everything about it was both too much and not nearly enough. With her throat and lungs both finally working she gulped air down greedily, diaphragm inflating too quickly and frequently, throwing her instantly into hyperventilation. 

She knew this feeling, the sick weakness and involuntary reactions that accompanied not being able to control her own body- she was all too aware she was having a panic attack. They had become painfully familiar to her over the years, but she couldn’t remember having one this bad since she was a kid. Specifically, when she’d been a hollow-eyed nine year old that had finally grasped what it meant to have a deceased father- no more special movie nights, no more silly games at the park, and no more happy family dinners because daddy was  _never_  coming home  _ever_  again.

The memory nearly sent her spiraling into a relapse, and no doubt would have if Peter hadn’t been there.

“Deep, even breaths, baby. Come on,” he kept encouraging, the perfect blend of steady calm and purposeful direction. “Deep breaths. That’s it. Copy me, honey. I’ve got you. You’re alright. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Come on. Deep breaths.”

Stiles closed her eyes and let his words wash over her. She could feel the measured push and pull of his breathing against her back and she focused on it, trying to match his even pace.

Peter continued to talk to her throughout the panic attack, his tone never changing, never belying any sort of impatience or anger. His presence was grounding, a safe anchor for her to hold onto, and once her senses finally cleared, once her breathing became regulated again, she continued to hold on. She was emotionally drained, physically weak from the contortions and spasms, but Peter remained a firm support, so why shouldn’t she use him? 

Stiles was vaguely aware that something had changed between them, their established dynamic had been completely skewed, and it was going to leave their relationship altered in a way she wasn’t sure she was going to like. The truth of it was there in the way he was holding her, firm and inescapable and  _protective_. It was there in the even rumble of his voice and his little terms of endearment. And it was there in her own openness, in spite of the fact that he’d been the one to cause her attack, that mere moments ago he’d been threatening both her innocence and her life.

She almost started crying again when the thought crossed her mind that she hadn’t felt this safe or protected since her daddy had died, but she just didn’t have the energy left.

* * *

Peter contemplated the young bundle in his arms. She’d gone soft, her muscles lax with exhaustion, but he could still feel how she’d reared up against him, rigid and in pain as her body fought itself. He’d never thought to feel regret again, had assumed the fire had burned it out of him, yet he regretted  _this_. Stiles was outwardly a bundle of nerves, but he’d always sensed a hard core of steel in her, so how had he sent her into such a violent fit?

And, hell below, had her fit wrought something in him! At her first choking gasp, he’d thought to simply leave her- this was already taking longer than he’d hoped and he could always find someone else willing to hack their way into Scott’s account -but then she’d made a noise, a soft agonized whimper that sparked suppressed instinct back to life. Logically, he knew she wasn’t a wolf, but that noise had sounded so much like a pup in distress that he hadn’t been able to ignore it. The Alpha in him, that chaotic core of anger and hatred, had suddenly  _panicked_ , snapping forward in an effort to defend and protect.

And that was just a fucking curse, really. He’d only wanted the power in order to seek revenge, but becoming an Alpha had awakened a whole world of instincts that ran far deeper than the average wolf's. Chief among his new drives had been the urge for pack and pups, which he’d admirably ignored and cleverly subverted by turning Scott. But it had continued to lurk under his skin, a desperate want for connection, exploding to fore at the first opportunity. And what else could he do but comfort her? The little woman-child was basically a lost omega pup waiting to be claimed into a pack. Never mind that she was the wrong species and generally too old to be considered a child; she was lost and alone and terrified, and the Alpha instinct in him wanted to soothe that, to take it away and replace it with things like safety and comfort and  _home_.

It was a strong set of concepts that he hadn’t felt himself since before the fire. That was the whole point of his revenge, after all- to pay Argent back for that brutal slaying and the extensive damage it had left in its wake. Peter wanted that sense of home back, to feel easy and safe and strong, but his revenge had been more immediately important so he’d pushed those desires down and buried them deep. It was startling to feel their familiar ache again, to want to provide those things he didn’t have to a girl he barely knew.

Stiles, through no fault of her own, was weak- a soft fleshy creature barely aware of her own surroundings. Had she been older that might have sparked his predator’s instinct, but instead it made him want to protect her. Which made her a liability in his game of revenge, particularly since every second Peter wasted in this garage was more time for Kate to pull her resources and strengths together. Tonight would be a breaking point in this war, one way or the other, and Stiles was trapped in the thick of it with no defenses other than her quick wit. Which she didn’t even  _have_  currently, seeing as she’d exhausted herself to the point of dozing off.

A howl rolled through the night, low and desperate, searching and so unbearably hopeful that it had to be Scott. Moments passed, silence stretching out into an infinity, before an answer ripped through the air. This howl was angry, bitter-  _Derek_  -and coming from painfully familiar territory. Peter had only a moment to marvel at the audacity of the hunters holding his nephew captive somewhere in or near the Hale house before he had to turn his attention to the matter at hand.

Scott would undoubtedly mount a rescue, and maybe he’d even manage to free Derek so they could join forces, but eventually Kate would interrupt them before they could make a clean getaway. Which meant Kate’s attentions would be divided, distracted by the opportunity to inflict pain; she’d be  _vulnerable_  to outside attack, a perfect chance to finally exact his revenge. But he would have to move quickly, timing was essential and he would only have a small window of opportunity to exploit.

Peter stood abruptly, swinging the dead weight of Stiles up into his arms. It was only when she moaned a little at the sudden movement that he realized he had no idea what to do with her. He’d intended to leave her here, but he’d also planned on her being conscious at the time. Twenty minutes ago, he wouldn’t have cared either way, but now the thought of leaving her- a cute, young, defenseless little thing in a dress that had already been borderline indecent when she was standing and fully awake -made his gut churn. In this part of town, the rabble wouldn’t leave enough of her intact to put a person back together again. He’d have to take her along.

As quickly as he could, Peter got the car open and settled Stiles into the backseat, tucking her into his coat for warmth. It couldn’t be comfortable, but the barely open slit of her eyes told him she probably wasn’t all that aware of her surroundings anyway. Still, as he sped off into the night, he kept an eye on her in the rearview mirror, just in case. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do with her once he got to the Hale house; in her condition, she’d have to be kept  clear of the fighting, particularly if there were guns involved, and it went without saying that she had to stay out of Kate’s sight. Just the thought of that Argent bitch laying her filthy eyes on his girl had him fighting down the transformation. Alpha forms didn’t lend themselves to driving cars very well and his cargo was too precious for him to be reckless like that.

He  _was_  being reckless though, wasn’t he? Scott had been a risk of necessity, a decision borne of desperation. Peter had needed a pack,  _any pack_ , and Scott had been convenient- he didn’t really care what happened to the teenager so long as it serviced his endgame. And now he was so close to that endgame-  _it could happen tonight!_  -but there was suddenly Stiles to think of. Unexpected Stiles whose wit and loyalty appealed to him, whose moment of unguarded vulnerability had triggered something primal in the wolf, something that had passed all logical arguments and simply decided she was pack. And he was bringing her near Kate, who still had the power to hurt and kill. But he had to finish this now, he reassured himself, otherwise the pack was facing an eternity of looking over their shoulders, like Kate Argent was the fucking  _boogeyman_.

No, Peter knew that the only way to establish a real pack and keep them safe was to put that demoness  _in the ground_. A big gamble now would be better than a crushing loss later.


	2. Some Folks

**Some** **Folks**

_"Some folk love to see red,_

_Some folks never talk about it._

_Some folks crave a blue lady,_

_Some folks know, still they doubt it."_

 

Stiles was only vaguely aware of the world around her. Everything was pleasantly whited out and quiet, though she did get the feeling that she’d been moved. The strong presence that had been holding her up was gone, but that was okay.

Until she heard the screaming- it was _considerably less_ okay after that.

Reality slammed into her, her senses screeching back to life. It was dark, night time, and she was crammed in the backseat of a sporty little compact that was parked behind the twisted shell of the Hale House.

“What the hell?” she mumbled to herself. She’d been in a parking garage, hadn’t she? Then again, she’d also had a pretty severe panic attack, so it wasn’t surprising that she’d lost track of her surroundings, but how had she ended up here? 

Realization dawned. Peter had kidnapped her! That wily little bastard had stuffed her unconscious body into his car, as if she were no more a hassle to him than his dead nurse, and driven off to do whatever the hell it was that he’d been planning to do all along. He could be on the other side of that house, ripping his way through the Argent clan right now, committing gleeful murder against the only forces capable of stopping him.

Stiles sat up, flailing when the thing around her constricted her movement. Peter had obviously tried to bind her by... _tucking her into his coat?_ She clutched at the heavy material in confusion; he was either inappropriately chivalrous or the worst kidnapper in the history of all time. He wasn’t even in the car, for crying out loud! There was nothing to stop her from throwing a door open and making a break for it, other than the fact that her legs currently felt like jelly. Still, an opportunity like this couldn’t be wasted.

Stiles slipped her arms into the coat and gathered her courage. Breathing deep, she popped a door open and made a break for the heavier tree-line. Immediately, she knew this was a dumb idea: her legs were barely holding her and his coat would probably leave an easy to follow scent trail behind. Regardless, she pressed forward, wobbling and flopping like a demented rag doll until a pair of unforgiving arms wrapped around her. 

Stiles screamed when a hand clamped around her throat, but the sound was soon cut off by a nasty squeeze. Choking for the second time that night, she frowned when she realized it wasn’t Peter who had grabbed her. The height and bulk behind her felt all wrong, and she was pretty sure those were fingernails digging into her neck, not claws.

Just then, Allison, Scott, Derek, and Peter all rounded the back end of the house, and it didn’t take Allison’s shout of, “Aunt Kate!” for Stile to figure out who had her in a chokehold. 

Stiles had done her research; she’d looked up all the old files and related case reports and devoured them in an effort to arm herself. She knew that Kate Argent had been cold-hearted, careful, and systematic when it had come to starting the Hale fire. But Kate had left just enough evidence behind to connect the crime back to her if someone dug deeply enough. Despite her terrifying competence, Kate was always a little messy in the end- she’d left her bloody signature in a trail of carnage, dozens of werewolf hate crimes tailored to look like unfortunate accidents. She was a monster hiding in plain sight.

Stiles almost wished that it was Peter at her back, at least she was familiar with him. She did have one advantage over her attacker, though: Kate was human, and humans rarely scared Stiles anymore.

Allison treaded forward carefully, her bow slung over her shoulders, hands out defensively. “Aunt Kate, what are you doing? That’s Stiles!”

Scott began to edge sideways at the same time Derek did, the two of them trying to flank their enemy. Scott glared all the while, not the least bit subtle, and let loose an angry growl when Kate bit out, “What difference does it make?”

“She’s human.” Allison was stunned, betrayal and confusion in her eyes.

Kate shook her head, her grip tightening as she sneered, “She’s nothing but bait.”

For a split second, Stiles met Peter’s gaze. He hadn’t moved since coming into view and his stillness was unsettling. Unlike Derek and Scott, who both felt the restless need to prowl, Peter was front and center, his gaze drilling into Kate as he waited for the tiniest vulnerability to jump on. Nothing escaped his eyes, and in that ravenous focus burned the deepest, fiercest insanity that Stiles had ever seen. 

As Peter’s features began to take on a lupine cast, Stiles decided it was time to capitalize on her non-fear of humans and get the hell out of Dodge. Moving the way her mother had drilled into her, Stiles scraped her foot down the length of the older woman’s shin, slamming the spike of her heeled shoe into Kate’s toes- thankful for the first time that night that Lydia had talked her into wearing the high-heels. Once Kate reflexively let go, Stiles balled up her fist and drove her elbow back. She’d been aiming for Kate’s throat, but missed considerably and instead caught the older woman on the chin. Still, it sent her attacker jerking back and away and that was all Stiles needed to get herself gone. The unearthly roar she heard as she scrabbled away only encouraged her to sprint that much further. 

Eventually, Allison caught her by the shoulders and they both turned to watch the horror unfolding before them.

Derek and Scott had circled around Kate, cutting off her escape, while Peter had-

Christ, Peter had _literally_ jumped on Kate, fangs and claws flashing in the moonlight as he ripped into her with a vengeance. For some reason he’d eschewed his Alpha form, and the sight of what appeared to be a man moving with such savage intent was somehow infinitely more terrifying than if he’d been a hulking beast.

Allison cried out, fingers clutching at her bow to fight. Stiles frowned at her. She knew the other girl didn’t have the full story, didn’t know the things her aunt had done, but she had to realize that there was no stopping Peter now. A bomb could go off under their feet and he’d probably bounce right back up to continue mauling.

Stiles wrapped her arms around the other girl. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am, but it’s done. There’s no helping her now.”

“He’s killing her,” Allison pointed out angrily.

Scott whined in the distance.

“I know,” Stiles replied, repeating, “I’m sorry. Sometimes, you’ve just got to put a rabid animal down.”

Allison’s gaze went cold, her shoulders rearing away as she cold-cocked Stiles in the jaw.

On any other day, Stiles would have seen it coming, would have been able to dodge the hit, but she was tired and cold and utterly freaked out by the violence happening mere feet in front of her. The hit landed with a fleshy smack, just hard enough to spin Stiles away. She barely had the time to scream, “What is it with your family?!” at Allison before someone hastily picked her up off the ground.

The metallic tang of blood hit her nostrils, and she knew it was Peter who’d picked her up. Sticky warmth began to seep into her clothes and she had just a moment to stare at him in disbelieving horror before he swept her legs into his arms, holding her bridal style. Reflexively, she threw her arms around his neck, gagging when her fingers sifted through a thick paste of what had probably once been Kate’s insides.

There were several soulful shouts of, “Stiles!” and at least one angrily growled, “Peter!” all of which only seemed to prompt Peter to edge carefully away from everyone.

“Really?” Stiles asked him, pushing at his chest as hard as she could. “You’re taking me hostage again? Put me down!”

But Peter just shook his head and backed away further. “Not safe, pup,” he growled in a voice that was so garbled by the wolf that she wasn’t even sure she was hearing him right.

Stiles balked. “ _Are you kidding?_ You just _eviscerated_ someone in record time; you’re clearly the most dangerous person here. Now put me _down_.” She didn’t want to be this close to him. In fact, she wanted nothing more than for Peter to disappear from her life now that his revenge was over, which would be pretty hard if he was determined to keep carrying her everywhere. “Scott,” she cried out, making grabby-hands at her best friend. It was a stupid impulse to follow because everyone present now knew that Peter could smack him down like a fly.

Bless his heart though because, even knowing that, Scott still shot forward to help her, only coming up short when Peter let out a roar the likes of which none of them had ever heard before. It shook Stiles down to her marrow and left a ringing in her ears that was clearly far worse for the betas since it had sent both of them crashing to their knees.

Peter booked it for the car, stuffing her inside and driving off with lightning speed. They were already tearing through the woods and halfway to the main road before Stiles got her bearings. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, genuinely confused. She’d outlived her usefulness, both as an information source and as a hostage. Peter didn’t need Scott for anything now that he’d gotten back at Kate, and if he didn’t need _Scott_ then he certainly didn’t need _Stiles_. Was this revenge for slowing him down in the parking garage? For having the panic attack? He’d seemed so genuinely concerned at the time, but then he’d also been frothingly homicidal moments ago, so she was having a hard time getting a read on him.

Peter clenched his jaw, breathing hard in an obvious effort to draw the wolf back. When he spoke, though, his voice was as calm and measured as always. “They’re not pack yet, pup. Not really anyway, and that’s dangerous right now.”

“And that requires my attention, why?” Stiles bit out, a frown pulling at her lips as she considered his words. “That’s the second time you’ve called me pup.”

“You _are_ a pup,” he rolled his eyes. “Which makes you vulnerable.” His gaze darted toward her, a smile creeping around the corners of his mouth. “Though you did hold your own tonight. It was admirable.”

Stiles rubbed at her eyes and digested that statement. “Okay, A) Wrong species; B) Fuck you; and C) Thanks, I guess?” Whatever second wind she’d hit since the panic attack was clearly leaving her; she was exhausted all over again and Peter wasn’t going out of his way to make sense. “This has been a weird night. Why did you have you crash the formal? I was actually having fun,” she grumbled irritably. Somewhere, deep down, she knew she was playing with fire by talking to him so casually, but a large part of her was hoping to bait him. If he reacted to her petulance, maybe she could build up a report and get some solid answers.

When he simply cocked an eyebrow in lieu of answering she decided to ditch subtlety. She so did not have the energy for it right now. Point blank, she asked him, “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” Peter answered. It was purposefully sort and unhelpful.

She propped an elbow against the window and leaned her cheek into her hand. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you mean ‘ _to the police_ ’ when you say that.”

“Suppose it is.”

She was just in the middle of snapping, “Cut the cryptic bullshit!” when he reached out and moved her elbow. The unexpected displacement made her accidentally smack her own head against the window. Pride wounded and inherent warning received, Stiles managed the impossible and shut her mouth.

Until they reached the nondescript apartment complex on the other side of town, anyway. Peter didn’t strike her as the type to have his personal life in order before his revenge was complete, so this couldn’t be his place. Her mouth popped open immediately. “Let me guess,” she drawled sarcastically, trying to ignore how gentle Peter was when he helped her out of the car and guided her through an unfamiliar door, “this is actually nursie’s apartment.”

He didn’t deign to answer, which was all the confirmation she needed. Instead, he locked the door securely behind them and began to bodily herd her through the place.

Unnerved, Stiles retreated, unsure what to think when she realized that he was corralling her toward a bathroom. “Were you taken over by a pod person when nobody was looking?” she asked when he pulled out a first aid kit.

Peter shot her a blatantly unamused look. “Hands,” he demanded, taking out antiseptic and a pair of tweezers.

Images of him removing her nails bit by bloody bit flooded her mind, making Stiles flinch hard. “What do you want?”

“I _want_ to get those paint chips out from under your nails before they get infected,” he snapped, “if they haven’t already, seeing as that was nearly two hours ago.”

She was so flabbergasted by his answer that she didn’t even resist his grip on her wrist. “Is this concern? Is that what’s happening right now?”

“Believe it or not,” he grumbled, dowsing the the tweezers in rubbing alcohol then slowly folding the sleeve of her borrowed coat up her arm.

Stiles shook her head. “Not,” she affirmed, trying to stifle a wince when his tweezers dug uncomfortably into her fingertip.

“Don’t watch,” he chastised, nudging her head to face away. “It hurts more when you anticipate it.”

He really was a pod person- it was the only way to explain the complete one eighty in his behavior. How was this gentle, careful man even the same person as the guy who’d earlier threatened to physically violate her? What had changed?

The obvious answer was that the panic attack had affected him as much as it had her. The problem was in knowing what way. Had her meltdown appealed to some heretofore unknown core of sympathy within Peter or had he seen her vulnerability as a way to manipulate her? Not that it mattered either way; Peter was a stone-cold killer, as unbalanced as he was determined, and every second she spent with him sent her changes for survival dwindling.

“Supposing I actually do believe you’re concerned- which I don’t, by the way -it still doesn’t change anything. There’s only one way this can end,” she told him, trying to ignore the torturous dig of the tweezers. He wasn’t ripping her nails off, but it was still about as painful as she’d imagined.

Peter let out a sigh, sounding very much like her mother when she was losing patience. “And how’s that, Stiles?”

“Well, let’s take a look at your actions over the past few hours, shall we?” She began ticking off on the hand he wasn’t holding. “You trespassed on school property where you mauled and potentially killed an innocent girl. You then kidnapped the Sheriff’s only daughter and proceeded to threaten me with rape and/or torture. After a short detour into raging hysterics on my part, you drove us into the middle of the woods, viciously murdered a woman, and then kidnapped me _again_ to hole up in the apartment of your _dead_ nurse.” She turned to face him, unsurprised to find him smiling at her. ‘ _There are so many things wrong with this man_ ,’ she thought. “Even if you claim temporary insanity caused by an abrupt recovery from trauma-induced catatonia, my mother is still going to pump you full of bullets.” 

“Well, that’s certainly one way to break the ice,” his smile widened. “How do you think she’d react when I bounced back from several _supposedly_ fatal shots?”

“She’d assume you’re on PCP, is my guess.”

“Probably not the best way to meet your mother, then.” He dabbed antiseptic under each of her nails before reaching for her other hand. “We should think of a slightly less traumatic scenario.”

_“What?”_ Stiles stared at him in disbelief. “ _No!_ You don’t get to meet my mom!”

He shrugged arrogantly. “I think it’s only fair. After all, I did just save her only daughter tonight.”

“Excuse you,” she snapped angrily. “I saved myself.”

“Barring the panic attack, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed wearily, bitterly. She hated the idea that she seemed so weak to him, so desperately in need of saving. And yet... it was kind of nice think that someone _wanted_ to save her.

Stiles mentally slapped herself to derail that train of thought. She would not start viewing Peter sympathetically just because he was showing her a scrap of kindness on what had otherwise been a hellish night! One hundred percent of the proceedings had been his fault.

“I’m tired,” she admitted truthfully, “and I don’t mind telling you that you terrify me. So could you please show me the vaguest hint of courtesy and tell me what the hell is going on right now?”

He pulled an especially large chip of paint out from under her nails. “At this very moment I am getting bitched at by an emotional teenager for making the egregious mistake of trying to prevent her from contracting gangrene.”

Her temper finally snapped. “Would you _stop_ with the hands,” she shouted, jerking the tweezers out of his fingers. 

Like lightning, he gripped her wrist and lifted it to his mouth. Eyes snapping from blue to red, he murmured, “I know another way to make sure it isn’t a problem, if the human approach is too much of a _hassle_ for you.” His fangs threatened the air near her exposed flesh.

Stiles began to shiver, adrenalin coursing through muscles already too overtaxed to handle it. “Don’t,” she pleaded simply, her voice sounding small.

There was an uncomfortable pause as his gaze drilled into her. When she looked away he kissed her bloody fingertips and lowered her hand, but his eyes didn’t stray and they didn’t return to blue. “I’m going to patch you up a bit,” he said evenly. “And then I’m taking you to the hospital where you’re going to file an official report saying you were attacked by Kate Argent. Barring Derek’s proclivity for improper burials, the police will find her body at the scene of her own crime and hopefully manage to put two and two together.”

So this was still about revenge. Somehow that actually disappointed Stiles a little. Still, there were worse ways of being recruited by Peter than being involuntarily signed up for a hospital visit.

“If they find her body, you’ll be caught. You _do_ realize that, right?” She hunched further into his coat, unsure why she was arguing with him when she just desperately wanted to go home. “I mean, you savaged her, so there’s probably more than enough forensic evidence to convict you.”

Peter actually laughed at that, a cruel sound that made her shivering worse. “Any genetic material that they test will come back with unknown variables. I’m not _human_ , Stiles, remember?”

“How can I forget?” she asked, purposefully making eye contact.

His red gaze didn’t waiver. “Brave girl,” he complimented her, reclaiming the tweezers while she was distracted. “Relax, the night’s almost over. By tomorrow, this will all just be an unpleasant memory.”

God, she really hoped so.

 

* * *

 

It was a lie, of course. The night went on for _fucking_ ever. 

True to his word, Peter drove her to the hospital- after a quick but thorough cleansing on his part and a terrifying moment where he stuffed her into unfamiliar clothes -where she filed her report and waited for the nurses to stop poking at her. Mere minutes passed before her mother burst onto the scene, fussed over her obscenely, and then proceeded to thank Peter for bringing her in like he was a goddamn war hero.

“I couldn’t leave her wandering alone at this time of night,” Peter lied like a pro. “She was scared and obviously hurt. I did what I could with the first aid kit in my car, but I figured it would be better to get her to a hospital.”

The terrifying thing was that her mother, _the Sheriff_ , believed him. How was her bullshit radar not pinging up a storm?

“What I want to know,” her mother rounded on her, “is what happened to Lydia, and how you got from the school all the way out to the middle of the Preserve.”

Peter glared at her over her mom’s shoulder. He was way too close to either of them for comfort; there was no way she could tell the truth without risking his immediate wrath. Swallowing around her dry tongue, she replied, “It was Kate. I think,” she swallowed again, angry with herself. She was usually a much better liar. “I don’t know, the whole night is kind of a blur.”

“She is displaying minor symptoms of shock,” the nurse finally spoke up. “It might be wiser to hold your questions for later.”

“How is she?” 

“Now she asks,” Stiles grumbled.

“Hush,” her mother frowned. “She can’t be that bad off if she’s mustering up sarcasm.”

The nurse smiled and consulted her chart. “She has moderate bruising around her neck and face, as well as several small defensive wounds, particularly on the hands. Other than that it’s mostly just adrenaline shakes and exhaustion.” She patted Stiles’ shoulder. “Considering the state the Martin girl is in, you got off lucky.”

The bitter, _bitter_ irony was that Peter’s recent behavior seriously had her questioning if she _had_ gotten off lucky or not. He was acting strange and it made her feel like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Can we go home?” Stiles asked her mom quietly. She just wanted to get away from the whole mess this night had become, to crawl into bed and sleep for about a year.

Still, the whole wretched debacle was almost worth it to see Peter finally leave, and for the crushing hug Scott gripped her in when the nurses couldn’t keep him out of the exam room anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to update again so soon, especially on the first week of class, but I get so excited about new stories!
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from Alice Cooper's, Some Folks.


	3. Morning Comes

 

** Morning Comes **

_" 'Cause the devil's_

_In the details,_

_And he's takin' his toll."_

Peter knew he was pushing his luck at this point, that it wasn’t exactly a masterful idea to invade the Sheriff’s home when he still had some tracks to cover and skeletons to throw back into the closet. He was _aware_ , and yet he hadn’t been able to stop thinking that Stiles wouldn’t smell like him anymore. The thought had bothered him far more than it should have.

He hadn’t cared what Scott or Derek smelled like, even though he _really_ should have, should have felt some sort of driving impulse to make them smell like himself, to _mark_ them as his so that no other pack would touch them. Yet it was the human girl that he focused on. After the garage, after being pressed up against him for who knew how long, she’d reeked of him, so thoroughly marked that no wolf would ever question who that girl belonged to. And, of course, he’d only reinforced it by wrapping her into his coat, adding a new layer to the changing scent. The problem that he was now facing, that had driven him to the Sheriff’s home too soon, was that his scent marking had been passive: Stiles had smelled like him because she’d been around him, not because he’d purposefully marked her. A quick shower or a short nap in her own bed and his claim would be gone, overwritten by the smells of her daily life.

The thought was intolerable. 

And that was the problem with humans. Wolves stayed close, stayed within the confines of the pack because they felt an inherent need to be near, to be physical, to mingle scents as a reaffirmation of their solidarity. Humans didn’t feel the desire share their scent, didn’t even recognize it as the claim it was; they were much more in tune with the metaphysical aspects of being in a pack- the emotional and abstract bonds that created unity -but their instincts rarely drove them to the physical lengths that were so commonplace among wolves.

Having grown up in a pack that boasted as many humans as it had werewolves, Peter was well acquainted with these details, the problems they had presented, and how the wolves of the pack had worked around them. It’d usually involved the bite but, on the rare occasion that hadn’t been an option, frequent exposure had been the only avenue left. Enfold a human that deeply into a wolf’s life and they couldn’t _help_ but smell like the wolf.

Peter itched to _bite_ Stiles, the Alpha lust for stability driving him hard, but he knew better than to force it just now. His failures with Scott had highlighted exactly what he didn’t want to happen with the girl. Stiles was strong willed, and if he bit her now she would resist joining the pack. In the end, it would be far easier to ensure she was pack first, unquestionably loyal, and then give her the bite.

Which meant he had to occupy himself with lesser means until then, like ensuring she smelled enough like him at all times to soothe the wolf.

So here he was, an Alpha werewolf- _the Alpha Hale_ -fresh off a revenge high, sitting in a suburban living-room as the Sheriff of Beacon Hills made him coffee. He could hear Stiles upstairs, sweet and unaware as she rolled out of bed and wrapped herself in a blanket before coming downstairs. It was all so unbearably domestic, and yet it appealed to the part of him that had been so long without a home. He fit unreasonably well, a lone killer in a den of beguiling feminism.

He’d noticed the lack of a male presence right away. There were few undertones of testosterone in the house that didn’t belong to Scott. Peter had assumed, fleetingly, that the Sheriff was probably divorced, like Mrs. McCall, until he’d noticed all the pictures. Whoever he’d been, the Sheriff clearly still cherished him, which meant her husband was more probably dead than simply gone. And in that information was an opportunity, a void in the Stilinski household that he could patch over and fill in his own unique way.

Stiles caught sight of him and tripped at the bottom of the stairs.

“How many times do I have to tell you to leave your blankets on the bed?” her mother called from the kitchen. “I swear you’re going to break your neck one of these days! This is exactly why I buy you sweatshirts, kiddo.”

But Stiles ignored it, pulled herself up with some help from the banister, and made a beeline for Peter. She eyed him, expression panicked. _“Why are you here?”_

Peter lounged more fully on their hideous sofa and motioned Stiles closer. She looked torn, but then her eyes darted toward the kitchen and her face hardened; still, when she finally sat next to him, she sat with such rigidity that he worried she’d hurt herself. Quietly, not wanting to draw her mother’s full attention, he asked, “How are you?”

Her eyes spasmodically widened and then narrowed, as though she couldn’t believe he would dare to ask her that. “My hands are on fire and my throat feels like I tried to perform fellatio on a sandblaster,” she snarled. _“Why are you here?”_

He enjoyed that spark of bravery in her, the voice of aggression that occasionally overrode her common sense. The Alpha in him knew he couldn’t let her get away with it too often, but he would let it slide this once because she deserved it after her run-in with Kate. Rather than admonishing her behavior, he simply smiled and replied, “I thought your mother might find it a nice gesture if I checked up on you and made veiled but obviously concerned inquiries about the search for your attacker.”

Her mouth fell open for a second but she caught herself, hid the reaction so quickly that anyone else would have missed it. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to find out that you’re a sociopath,” Stiles grumbled to herself, rubbing her palms over her eyes. To him she finally said, “It _isn’t_ a nice gesture.” She looked up, meeting his gaze defiantly. “You’re _not_ welcome here.”

Peter almost felt bad that she hadn’t quite sussed out his intentions yet, that she had no idea how badly fate was stacked against her. Then again, he also found it kind of funny, so he allowed himself a chuckle. “And yet, your mother invited me in for coffee.”

“That had _better not_ be a euphemism for anything!” Stiles whispered angrily, her arms popping out of her nested blanket in order to point at him accusingly. “I swear to _god_ , if you try to screw my mom--”

Peter curled his arm around her shoulders and her and drew in close. “You’ll what?”

* * *

 Stiles could feel her hands begin to shake. He was so casually threatening, so unrepentantly awful, and it reminded her of last night, slammed her back into the mindset she’d been in just before-

Peter’s hand moved, cradling the back of her skull as he guided her head between her knees. “Breathe,” he instructed patiently. “You’re fine. You’re not in the parking garage, Stiles; you’re _home_. How bad can things be if you’re _home?”_

The absolute _insanity_ of that statement coming from a man who’d watched his own family _burned alive_ in their home brought her back from the edge. Lightheaded, she had to stifle a hysterical giggle.

Mistaking the noise for an aborted sob, he began to run his hand over her back, rubbing soothing circles into the thin fabric of her nightshirt. “Breathe.”

“I _am_ breathing,” she snapped, batting his hand away as she struggled to sit back up. If she’d thought his earlier behavior unsettling this was so much worse. Peter had known she was about to have another panic attack, almost before she had. And if that weren’t bad enough he’d... _fussed._ Albeit, in a barebones kind of way, but he’d still been gentle and had known exactly what to do for her. From any other person, the gesture might have been sweet and it made her feel guilty how much she secretly enjoyed it.

Caring touches had been at a minimum in Stiles’ life for far too long. Her father had been a very physical parent- always holding hands, hugging her or carrying her around -and after he’d died all that simple, comfortable contact had disappeared. These days her mother was often distracted and Scott was too terrified of his own strength. She carried years of emptiness inside her, a quiet desperation that wanted nothing more that to curl up in someone else’s arms and listen to the hypnotic rhythm of their breathing.

Like she had with Peter. Peter who was strong and could occasionally be gentle, like her father had been, who was careful of his own strength even when he seemed to touch her without thinking. Some part of her wondered if maybe he was touch-starved too, if this bizarrely tender side of him was just the product of being alone for six years.

He eyed her contemplatively. “Does that happen often?”

“Panic attacks?” She shook her head. “Not since-” Stiles cut herself off, not wanting to tell him about her family, about _herself._ “Not for a long time now. I blame you for this.”

Peter shrugged, clearly unconcerned with her accusation as he threw his arm back around her shoulders. “And here I thought I was the damaged one.”

“No one’s usurping you from that throne, don’t worry.” Stiles swallowed, wishing he wouldn’t invade her space so readily. He assumed control so naturally, so easily, and she wanted the contact more than she had any right to. It shouldn’t be so hard to remember that he was a crazy, red-eyed, murderous monster, and yet she kept having to remind herself. “Is there a reason we’re almost hugging, because I won’t lie-”

He cut her off with a sardonic chuckle. “I’ve always found that people who preface statements with, ‘Because I won’t lie,’ are usually lying.” He let go but then, clearly just to spite her, ruffled her hair like she was an amusing child.

* * *

 “And then what happened?” Scott asked, leaning next to her locker.

Stiles frowned and grabbed her books. “My mom came in with coffee and danishes. I had breakfast in the _Twilight Zone,_ Scott!” She slammed the little metal door and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “And that’s not even the worst of it, dude.”

“Hitler came in and stole the last danish?” Scott was slowly learning the art of sarcasm, but he still hadn’t quite grasped the importance of timing. “How could it get worse?”

“My mom _likes_ him,” she sneered. “I have never seen her that open around someone who isn’t one of her deputies.” And that was frightening, because her mom was a closed-off person and an excellent judge of character. After so many years on the job, she’d developed a keen sense for when people were trying to deceive her. It was probably a testament to Peter’s charm that he could fool the Sheriff, which was scary as hell. How was she supposed to protect her mom against a person that the Sheriff didn’t even perceive as a threat?

Scott grimaced. “You think he’ll try to date her like he did with my mom?”

She thought about that for a moment, horrified by the possibility. Then an idea dawned on her, a wonderful opportunity to foil Peter without getting anyone hurt. “Not if we _tell_ your mom,” Stiles smiled.

Scott’s eyes went wide, clearly not following her train of thought. “What?”

“Hear me out,” she held out her hand as they began to walk to class. “Your mom was really upset about that cancelled date, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And then she got angry, because she thought they’d hit it off but now she can’t seem to get in touch with him again since he isn’t returning her calls.”

He sank into his usual seat at the back of class and turned to face her. “So?”

“So, she’s _still_ probably angry,” Stiles explained, taking her place next to him. “If you let it slip that Peter’s showing interest in my mom, your mom will likely go out of her way to make sure that mine doesn’t get hurt the way she did.”

“Are you sure?” He seemed doubtful and she couldn’t blame him for it. It was hard to willingly gamble with the safety of their families when they had no real way of knowing how bad the consequences could be.

“Scorned women are spiteful, Scott,” she explained, leaning in closer when the room began to fill up. They often played a little fast and loose when it came to discussing werewolves in public, but this was one conversation she didn’t want anyone else overhearing. “What I don’t get is why he’s targeting us.”

Scott’s eyes turned soulful, filled with a sort of self-loathing she’d never expected to see reflected in him. “Do you think he’s doing it to get at me? Maybe he’s trying to get me to join his pack again.”

“But he doesn’t _need_ you now that his revenge is complete,” Stiles shrugged and shook her head. “I mean, even if he were _driven_ to create a pack, couldn’t he pursue people who might actually be interested? You’re clearly a lost cause and he has no reason to be that desperate anymore.”

“Maybe,” he replied, but it really sounded more like a question. There was just too much they didn’t know or understand about Peter. “Do you think we should ask Derek?”

“Oh, yeah there’s a great idea,” she snorted, carding her fingers through her short hair. “Let’s go find the creepy malcontent living in the burnt out wreckage of his childhood to ask him for insights into his psychotic, power-drunk uncle.” 

Scott looked like he was about to defend Derek- and wasn’t that bizarre; where had that loyalty come from? -but class was already starting. They would have to wait for later.

* * *

Later finally came in the form of study hall. They claimed an empty corner of the library and huddled in close to keep from being overheard.

“So fill me in,” Stiles demanded in a whisper. “What happened last night?”

The speculation had been eating her alive. After dealing with Peter’s unfathomable behavior and her own mother’s unwillingness to discuss matters, she felt like she was completely out of the loop. What had happened to Kate? Did the Argents know? How had Derek and Scott handled matters?

Scott opened a book for show and propped it up in front of them. “Seconds after Peter made off with you, the Argents showed up.”

It was just like Scott to leave it at that. He seemed incapable of understanding her need for the fine details. _“And?”_ she prompted, waiving an impatient hand.

“And I thought Allison’s father was going to blow our heads off,” he replied, miming little pistols with his hands. “When he saw Kate we all tried to tell him what she’d done and was planning to do.”

Stiles hadn’t really had the opportunity to meet Chris Argent, but she’d seen him on several occasions. At the time, he’d struck her as a reasonable if severe sort of person, but who knew how he’d react to the death of his sister. “Did he believe you?”

“He didn’t want to, but he looked pretty resigned about the whole thing. I think he knew something was wrong with his sister all along and just didn’t want to believe it,” Scott replied, looking grim. 

It was strange to see the sympathy written all over him, but that was Scott: willing to adjust and forgive because his heart was too generous. Even now, he felt bad for Mr. Argent, despite the fact that the man was probably gunning for him, seeing as he was a _teenage werewolf_ dating the only daughter of a _werewolf hunter._ Sometimes, it was hard not to wonder if all that goodwill came at the expense of practical things like common sense and self-preservation. 

“After that, he just sort of took over, had everyone clean the scene up and staged Kate’s body in the house for the police to find. I’m not completely sure he’s given up on hunting the Alpha, but I also think he understands that Peter had his reasons.” He caught Stiles’ incredulous expression and held out his hands in defense. “I’m not saying it makes what he did okay, but when the only innocent blood spilled was a werewolf to begin with... it’s kind of a grey area for people like the Argents.”

Stiles didn’t think that was the full story. The Argents were clearly well prepared and expertly trained. What was it about Peter that made them too wary to engage? Were they waiting for backup or did they think they were outmatched? She didn’t really agree with the Argents’ methods or creeds- how _could_ she when he best friend was a werewolf? -but it was hard not to be disappointed by their noninvolvement. The Argents were the only people in town capable of containing someone like Peter. If they didn’t fight him, who would? 

She shook the thoughts away; it was just wishful thinking. Since the night Scott had been bitten, it had been clear that the two of them were on their own. They would just have to find their own way to deal with Peter. “So I take it you didn’t tell them about Peter kidnapping me twice in one night. Also- _Lydia’s_ innocent blood! Or did you forget?”

“She survived the attack,” Scott pointed out. Which was true- after a harrowing night, Lydia was supposedly making a rapid recovery. “I don’t know, maybe they’re scared of Peter. It just felt like they were backing off for some reason. And no,” he cut her off before she could ask again, “we didn’t mention you; Derek kept his mouth shut, so I did too.”

“Way to go with the flow, Scotty,” she glared at him. He was the greatest friend she could ask for, but he was often insensitive in a way that only teenage boys could manage. Stiles just barely stopped herself from punching his arm, the memory of his frantic invasion at the hospital the only thing that saved him. “You’re lucky that all Peter wanted was to use me as an excuse to get an APB out on Kate.” 

The ghostly echo of a strong hand circled her throat, making Stiles swallow hard. She was doing her best not to think too much about the previous night since it had brought her nothing but trouble. It was difficult not to though, especially since there were still so many questions hanging that desperately needed answering. She was dying to know if the police had found Kate’s body, if her mother had put the case together enough to realize that Kate was the Hale House arsonist. And, if she had, how would the Argents take that?

Her gaze darted around the library, unsurprised that she didn’t find Allison. The poor girl probably wouldn’t be in school for a few days. “How’s Allison taking all this?”

“Badly,” Scott gave her a sad grimace. “She was pretty close to her aunt and she’s taking the loss hard. She’s also really angry at Kate, though, so she’s trying to stop herself from grieving.”

“Since when did you become so sensitive?” Stiles wasn’t sure why she was continually surprised by his flashes of insight, she already knew he was capable of being observant when it came to Allison. 

“I want to be there for her but it’s hard,” he let out a suffering sigh. “Especially when she doesn’t want me around but won’t tell me to go away.”

She patted him on the shoulder. More often than not, she found Scott’s whirlwind romance a little annoying. She was happy for him, though, and happy for Allison too, but she couldn’t help feeling like she’d been left out in the cold sometimes. Still, she didn’t like seeing him suffer. “She got too much new information all at once, Scott. Her world changed too drastically in too small a span of time. She just needs time to adjust- you’ll be back to sucking face before you know it, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, once again, I find it impossible to wait more than a few days before updating.
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from Delta Rae's, Morning Comes.


	4. Ask For Nothing

 

** Ask For Nothing **

_"I ask for nothing,_

_But maybe I'm lying."_

After school, Stiles didn’t much feel like going home; she was a little unsettled at the thought that Peter might still be there. _With her mother._ She couldn’t avoid home forever though, which meant she’d have to talk to Mrs. McCall as soon as possible. It wasn’t the greatest plan, but Melissa would be off duty within the hour, so at the very least it was the _quickest_ plan.

Which left her with about forty minutes or so to kill and nowhere in particular to go. Despite her mother’s insistence that she _not_ spend all day sucking down caffeine, the coffee shop on 9th street still sounded like the best place to wile away the rest of her afternoon.

Scott had been oddly adamant that they at least _try_ to contact Derek, but Stiles hadn’t seen the use in it. They had no idea where he was, if he’d even be willing to help them and, after seeing the way Peter had thrown him around at the hospital, there was no way he could _protect_ them from the Alpha. On the other hand, Derek might have some useful information, but it wasn’t likely he’d share so she’d written him off.

So, of course, he was in her coffee shop, sitting in a dark corner-booth and dispassionately scanning a newspaper. It had to be some kind of a sign- she’d never seen him in a normal setting before, like he had a life to live or something. That he was in her favorite spot must just the universe’s way of telling her put on her big-girl pants and go talk to him.

“Go away, Stiles.”

_Or not._

She slid into the booth anyway, setting down her fluffy mocha with a careful tap. “We need to talk.”

“We _really_ don’t,” Derek replied evenly, turning a page.

“Look, I get it,” she glared at him, “I’m _human_ and that makes me beneath your notice, but you’re the only one who can provide insight into this mess.” She plucked the paper from his hands, a little thankful that he didn’t just hang onto it out of spite. That might have been embarrassing. “So buck up, little sadsack, because I’m not leaving until I have answers.”

_“Fine,”_ he bit out, face pained. But then, when did Derek ever _not_ look pained? “What do you want?”

She smoothed out the paper, refolding it neatly just to have something to do with her hands. “You need to explain your uncle to me, because Scott and I are at our wit’s end.”

A long pause followed that order and when she finally glanced up it was to find Derek staring at her like she’d suffered a massive head injury. “The fire broke something in him,” he explained slowly, as if disappointed in her apparent stupidity.

“Are you being purposefully difficult?” Stiles threw the paper at his head. “I’m not talking about the revenge!”

He caught it easily and set it aside. For a long moment he considered her, head cocked and expression finally something a little more curious. “Then what?”

“Oh _gee,”_ she waived her hands around in frustration, nearly knocking both their drinks over, “how about why he kidnapped me, called me pup, made a _house call_ this morning, and is now _schmoozing_ with my _mother_ like they’re old friends!”

Derek cautiously moved his drink and shrugged. “Peter was always social before the fire. Maybe, with his revenge out of the way, he’ll start resuming old behavior.” And just as she was beginning to think that his expression was approaching open it became suddenly guarded again. He froze, his nostrils flaring for a brief second. “Did you say he called you pup?”

“Twice. I figured he was just mocking me.”

He took another deep breath and grimaced, eyes darting up and away from her. “Probably.”

“You are a surprisingly terrible liar,” Stiles realized with awe. For someone who’d had to spend everyday of his life lying about what he was to everyone around him, it was strange that he wasn’t able to lie about this.

“Wolves don’t use that sort of term lightly,” he explained, hazel gaze returning. “If he’s calling you pup it’s because that’s how he sees you.”

“Weak and childish?” Which totally figured. It sucked a bit to be the token human because _of course_ she was going to look weak when compared to freaking _werewolves._ It mollified her a little bit to know that she’d handled herself well enough against Big Bad Kate. 

“In need of guidance and protection,” Derek corrected, taking a sip of his coffee. “A born-werewolf’s instincts run deeper than you could ever imagine, especially when it comes to family and pack. They’re the cornerstone we build our lives on.” The desperate look that was so much a part of him burned through his eyes. “Peter went insane after what happened to our family, but with vengeance behind him he could be seeking out a surrogate to replace what he lost.”

Which, holy shit, why? If Peter wanted kids, couldn’t he do it the old fashioned way? The thought that that was maybe what he was trying to do with her mother made her want to puke. “Why me? Why at all?”

Derek seemed uneasy. “Alphas can’t help it; it’s a defense mechanism, a survival technique.” His nostrils flared again and she briefly wondered what he was trying to smell. “More than that, though, it’s a necessity to be social- interaction keeps us grounded, keeps us from going feral. Even I feel that pull.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Stiles grumbled to herself. She couldn’t picture a more unsociable man, except maybe Mr. Harris whose aggressively dickish behavior was obviously just for the fun of watching others suffer.

He ignored her jibe. “What doesn’t make sense is why he would fixate on a human. Your instincts often run counter to ours; it would aggravate him, taunt the wolf and, more importantly, the Alpha in him.”

“So this _is_ about him trying to get to Scott through me!”

“I doubt it,” Derek shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Not if he’s calling you pup. You don’t say something like that to a person you don’t consider yours.” He paused, finally clearly settling on the scent that had been bothering him. “He’s identifying you as _pack.”_

Which wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted Peter to ride off into the sunset or maybe spontaneously burst into flames, not decide that she needed to be a part of his life! He was everything ugly in her world right now- danger, violence, and sick sort of temptation.  She’d always thought Scott’s protests against werewolfism had been naive and stubborn, but now she completely understood, especially if that gift came bound with the presence of someone like Peter.

Stiles took a gulp of her rapidly cooling drink. Things were so mixed up where Peter was concerned, and she knew that the only way to untangle any of it was to be informed. “Why does he call me pup?”

“I don’t know. He _shouldn’t,”_ Derek replied seriously. “You’re not a wolf and he clearly knows that, you’re not related, Scott hasn’t agreed to be his pack... you have no tangible connection to Peter, so he _shouldn’t_ be able to think of you that way.”

Unless it was a reality that he had planned for later down the road. If there was one thing they knew about Peter it was his outstanding ability to scheme. What if he was just preemptively identifying her as what he wanted her to become? He’d passingly threatened to bite her last night- granted, as a way of making her behave -but now the thought took root, the possibility looming over her like a hungry shadow.

“Will he try to bite me?” she asked quietly. After Scott’s transformation, she’d wondered what it would be like to be a werewolf- to possess those natural instincts, to have that sort of inherent grace, to work with those quick reflexes -but the more she’d seen of the Argents and the Alpha the less she’d wanted it. Peter’s threat the night before had been all the more frightening because it had promised to forge a bond between them when all she wanted to do was get away.

“I don’t know,” Derek shrugged, for once seeming genuinely apologetic that he was being so short. “Probably not, or he would have already.” But there was a waiver to the end of that sentence that reminded both of them how _little_ they truly knew about the Alpha Hale. “I wish I could tell you more, but it’s hard to know what he’s thinking when we don’t even know how sane he is right now. Maybe he’s just confused and he’ll snap out of it.”

Stiles pointed an accusing finger at him, “You don’t believe that.” Otherwise, why would he look so incredibly uncomfortable?

And, suddenly, she felt like there was something Derek was working his way up to telling her, a bomb he was trying to drop as gently as possible.

“I don’t understand his reasoning,” he hedged, “but I can appreciate the _meaning_ of him calling you pup. To you it’s just a word- like calling someone a kid or a baby -but to us it’s an identifier.” His eyes met hers, the finality of bone-deep regret lurking in their depths. “It’s a position in the pack.” He said it like it was a done deal, like she’d already been _collected_ and Peter was just waiting for her to catch up to that fact.

“Oh, this is so bad,” she groaned, head slumping to the table. That was _exactly_ what had happened, wasn’t it? In his arrogance Peter had decided she belonged to him. Why else would he have taken her from the garage, carried her away from the Hale House, dug paint out from under her nails, if not that? He’d wrapped her in his coat, for crying out loud! And it certainly shed a new light on the easy way he touched her: the wolf didn’t think of them as strangers. Why _shouldn’t_ he touch his own pack? Never mind that she hadn’t _consented_ or even freaking _known_ that she’d suddenly become pack. What deranged Alpha would stop to consider the feelings of a teenage girl?

Derek awkwardly patted her head, but the simple fact that he was trying to comfort her somehow made the situation worse. When he spoke though, his tone was purely speculative, “You aren’t a werewolf, and you’re too old to be considered a pup, so why would he use that word?”

“In need of guidance and protection, right?” Stiles peeked up from the table, just in time to catch his stiff nod. “Then I can think of at least one reason. After Peter snatched me from the formal I had a panic attack, a _bad_ one, and he eased me through it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated and the tiniest bit amazed that he was still touching her. Was it just a werewolf thing to be so unthinkingly tactile? Because she really hadn’t expected comforting gestures out of someone as emotionally distant as Derek. “What if, somehow, my distress bypassed predatory instinct and triggered something more protective?”

He didn’t look totally convinced. “There’s still some inherent condition unaccounted for, because the simple fact that you’re human should have made that response _impossible.”_ His fingers suddenly jittered in her hair and he quickly withdrew his hand, as if only now realizing what he’d been doing.

“Well, you said it yourself,” she sat up, ignoring whatever the hell had just happened. Had he been driven to comfort her or had he simply forgotten he was doing it? “We have no idea how sane Peter is right now. Maybe we should just be counting our blessings that he didn’t kill me.”

But Derek frowned at that, like she’d said completely the wrong thing. “This is going to persist, and it will get a lot worse before it gets better. _If_ it gets better.” His hands clenched and his gaze darted. “We can’t expect Peter to act the way any other wolf would. These little instances of gentleness won’t stop him from being violent and ruthless if the mood strikes him.”

Stiles let her jaw drop, unsure why she was so surprised that Derek was back to being a dick again. “Well, way to terrify me about a situation I already had no control over!”

He shrugged unapologetically. “If it makes you feel any better, he won’t kill you. He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do that to pack.”

“He killed his own niece in cold-blood. What am I compared to that?”

“Laura and I weren’t really pack anymore after we left him alone and defenseless,” Derek replied darkly.

She put her accusing glare back on. “So what you’re telling me is that my sole means of self-preservation is to rely on a quality _we can’t even identify_ and pray it continues to appease the psychotic Alpha?”

“Basically,” he had the audacity to smile at her.

Vindictively, she reached out and tipped the tiny remainder of his coffee onto the floor. “I _hate_ your family.”

His smile widened, became more than just a little mocking. “That’s kind of a shame, because you’re a part of it now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek gives awkward head pats! (I really love that idea more than I should.) 
> 
> I'm trying to maintain a buffer zone that falls somewhere between a chapter and a half to three chapters ahead of what I'm actually posting, which is a big reason that there's really no schedule to my updates. One of my biggest goals is to be fairly constant with this story, but I'm going to be working on my Animation thesis as well, so there might start to be longer stretches of time between updates. We'll see.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr now! Come play with me at ladyergott.tumblr.com!
> 
> Chapter title and lyric's from Lemon Demon's, Ask For Nothing.


	5. Peruvian Skies

 

** Peruvian Skies **

_"Don't turn on the lights_

_until we hear the way it ends."_

 

Talking to Derek had shed a new light on the situation, but ultimately proved a bust. After preforming several more emotional and behavioral sharp turns- ranging all over from sarcasm to anger to what she _almost_ dared to describe as playfulness -it had become very apparent that he didn’t even know how to _think_ about Peter, let alone get him out of their lives. There’d been a strange resignation in Derek that had unsettled her, as though he’d accepted Peter as his Alpha once more. Stiles couldn’t even begin to imagine how he could overlook the older wolf’s betrayal and blazing insanity, but then she had no way of knowing what their dynamic had been like before the fire- perhaps Derek had always deferred to his uncle and couldn’t break that pattern of behavior now. 

The only proof she had to support her suspicions was the way he’d treated her. Bypassing moments of his usual gruffness, Derek had been open with her, concerned, and it had established a vague sense of camaraderie that hadn’t existed between them before. She was all for making new friends, even if they were a few years older than her, but she couldn’t help being a little suspicious that all this was happening directly after the revelation of what Peter meant when he called her pup. Was Derek still part of his uncle’s pack and therefore driven to accept a new member, or was he simply healing after the closure of Kate’s death? Stiles hated that she didn’t know whether he was displaying subconscious behavior or simply making a choice to treat her differently.

The thoughts were left unresolved as Stiles turned her focus to the conversation she’d had with Mrs. McCall shortly thereafter. Scott’s mom was a practical woman, down to earth and tough as nails, and her reaction had been everything Stiles had hoped for. After carefully letting slip that her mother had hit it off with the man Mrs. McCall had tried to date, Melissa had blustered a bit and declared it was time for a girl’s night out. Back in the day, the Ladies McCall and Stilinski had gone out together on a bi-weekly basis, but that had been before divorce and death and teenagers. It would be nice to see them together again, particularly if it united their families against Peter.

Stiles hadn’t cared so much for being stuck in the empty house that night, though. Usually, she wouldn’t have been bothered- with her mother working all sorts of hours, she was _used_ to occasionally having the house to herself -but tonight it had struck a chord. She was alone and Peter could come back at any moment; she didn’t think slamming the front door in his face would do much to stop him if he decided that he really wanted in. It was too bad that werewolves didn’t operate on the same rules as vampires. Then again, her mother had already invited him in, hadn’t she? So, Stiles was doomed either way.

She’d gone to bed without any hope of actually sleeping. There was too much to think about, too much to consider. Yet, she must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing she was aware of was the world hazily shifting back into focus. And with reality came a stark sort of truth: _she was comfortable._ She felt safe and warm, steadied by the rhythmic beating of a heart, protected and coddled by the gentle hands that smoothed over her back. 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was sprawled on top of Peter Hale’s chest. Though it probably would take a few theoretical physicist to figure out why and how he’d done it without waking her. Not to mention the _boatload_ of psychologists it would take to explain why she wasn’t freaking out over it.

But she already knew that last one, didn’t she? It was an eerie sort of resignation brought on by exhaustion and positive physical reinforcement. The steady beat of Peter’s heart lulled her, his heat and closeness grounding her in a way that nothing had since her daddy’s death.

Probably having sensed the very moment she woke up, he asked, “Are you aware that you flail in your sleep?”

“No, Peter,” she bit out sarcastically, “I thought my blankets made a nightly migration to the floor all on their own.” Yet her words lacked their intended venom- a barded comment without any real barbs -and she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from the heat of his body. 

“Yet you settled completely once I was near,” he replied, smugness infesting his tone.

“Is that supposed to convince me that we’re pack? I can subconsciously identify your presence, therefore I must have accepted you as my Alpha?” God, wasn’t that a paralyzing thought? A fully grown adult male, who was really more _beast_ than man, had come into her room, had decided to physically surround her with his body, and her subconscious was more or less okay with it. What did that say about her as a person? She was fully aware that the Alpha was a dangerous, unbalanced man and yet she continued to keep herself tucked under his chin because it was _comfy._

One of his hands moved to massage her scalp, clearly undisturbed by her inner turmoil. “I see you’ve been talking to Derek.”

“Oh yeah,” she snorted despairingly, trying not to melt into his touch, “he was a regular old font of information.”

“We guard our lore jealously, Stiles,” he rebuked quietly. “That he talked to you at all is rather impressive.”

What the hell? Was he _upset_ that she was frustrated with Derek? Not over the fact that she’d gone to Derek and blatantly discussed him, but that she hadn’t found his nephew’s answers wholly satisfactory? Because that was really more _his_ fault than Derek’s- it was hard to pin down the thoughts of a mad man. Mulling his response over, she answered, “He still couldn’t tell me what I needed to know.” It took far more effort than Stiles was willing to acknowledge to lift her head up, to meet his eyes in the dark. “What is this, Peter?”

Peter was all lazy comfort and languid movements. He looked relaxed under her, far more at home on her bed than he had any right to be. “What do you think it is?”

She glared at him, hating- _fearing_ -the strange compliance the situation filled her with. “Would it kill you to give me a straight answer?”

“You’re clever, Stiles,” he stated easily, almost proudly, “and I wouldn’t be doing you any favors if I just handed you answers. I need to know you have the ability to earn information.” The hand on her scalp slipped down to cradle her neck, his fingers rubbing slow circles into the tense stretch of muscle. “So tell me what you think this is and I’ll tell you how close you are.”

Stiles licked her lips. She and Derek had figured it out, it was still just down to the whys. Why would Peter want her as pack, why would he consider her a pup, why would he pursue someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with him? Still, she had enough of an answer to satisfy him, and if she played along maybe he would give her some insight in return.

“Something happened between us in that parking garage,” she explained slowly, trying not to watch the way his eyes focused so intensely on her. It was like he could see her thought process laid out in a tidy roadmap and that unnerved her. “To me it was just an episode of vulnerability, but for you it was _reality-altering._ Something about that panic attack called to you, made you see me as something that I’m not.” Stiles carefully met his gaze. She knew it was dangerous, that he could perceive it as a challenge, but she needed the visual connection to stress her point. “I’m _not_ a pup, Peter- not a wolf and not a child. But that didn’t matter at the time, did it? Some crossed wire upstairs made the connection and you couldn’t break it.”

He didn’t respond, the patient quirk of his eyebrow telling her he clearly expected a bit more before he gave anything in return.

Stiles frowned but complied with the unspoken command to continue. “A real wolf would _never_ tolerate a cub from outside the pack, but I’m guessing the same isn’t true for werewolves since your packs aren’t exclusively made of family units and every orphan is a liability for maintaining your secrecy. It’s survival instinct to adopt lone pups, isn’t it?”

“Right on the nose,” he finally relented. “You see? Knowledge earned is so much sweeter than knowledge given.” As if in reward, both of his hands returned to rubbing soothing patterns across the expanse of her back.

She hated that she found the gesture so oddly comforting. It took her back to a time when life had been easy, reminded her of the days when she had been able to curl up against her dad and drift away. It had been so simple to feel loved back then, so easy to build a world out of affectionate contact. Everything had come crashing down when her dad had passed away, and she’d been starving for it ever since. She didn’t think she could survive Peter being her surrogate, though. 

“The thing is, I’m not a lone pup,” Stiles pointed out, trying to ignore how much she often felt like one. “I understand you maybe not being able to control your instincts in the heat of the moment, but it’s over; it’s done. Why isn’t logic reasserting itself?”

Peter hummed, his fingers ghosting up her spine. “I can’t turn my instincts on and off at will, Stiles.”

“But can you _ignore_ them?”

“Why would I want to?” He seemed offended by the very idea, brow furrowing and eyes glinting darkly. “My instincts are the only thing informing me on how to be an Alpha, what it _means_ to be an Alpha. If I ignore them, how am I any different from a beta?”

She tried to sit up a little, unsurprised when he only gave her an inch or two of clearance. “But your instincts are _clearly wrong_ in this case! You don’t have any enemies; you don’t _need_ a pack the way you did before. And even if you did, why would you choose a human as a pack mate?”

“There are _always_ enemies surrounding a pack,” he bit out, pulling her closer. His nostrils flared for a second, his jaw clenching. “Complacency is death.”

Stiles relented and settled back down, her neck tired from craning to look up at him. In the harsh light of day she was going to look back on this incident and be horrified at her behavior, but for now she allowed it. “Okay, but then why not build a pack out of people who actually _want_ to be in one?”

Peter seemed mollified by her question, pleased with her willingness to think around his strange rages. “Because the sort of person who asks for power is generally also the sort who would be willing to take it from you as well.” His hands began drifting again, up and down her arms in a way that made her shiver. “You’re little friend Jackson wants to be a werewolf so badly that he’s willing to _beg_ for it. He wants the strength and speed to outperform anyone around him- and I could give him that, but it would _never_ be enough. Eventually, he’d feel driven to be stronger than his Alpha, and a threat to the Alpha is a threat to the whole pack.”

Resolutely, she stared at the wall, allowing her thoughts to race without the interruption of translating his facial expressions. “How is turning people who don’t want to be wolves any better? Won’t they just gang up against you?”

“Not if they were chosen carefully enough and trained properly,” she felt him shake his head. “There’s only so much I could do for a person like Jackson- who feels an inborn need to dominate -but it’s a different matter entirely for people like you and Scott.” 

His grip never tightened, but it did turn unmistakably possessive at those words. Still tender, still relaxed, but full of an easy sort of ownership as well. The implications blanked out her thoughts, forced a loud, “What?” from her numb lips.

“You both lack central, male authority figures, a role I can easily fill.”

Her throat closed, hands clenching reflexively. Because she’d just thought that, hadn’t she? In her mind, she’d been drawing parallels between Peter and the beloved parent she’d lost much too soon. “You are _not_ my _father,”_ she gritted out, struggling to get away.

“But I could be,” he replied in a quiet purr, his hands holding her fast, keeping her pressed tight to his chest. “I could provide for you the things your life’s missing in his absence.”

Stiles clenched her eyes and bit her lip, trying to block out how insane the offer was. What could Peter do for anyone? He was driven by bloodlust and bitterness, haunted by the ghost of his own family so thoroughly that it had precluded any semblance of a normal life. How could anyone hope to build a relationship on that kind of foundation? 

She let her eyes drift back open and moved to punch him. “There aren’t even words for how _pissed off_ you’ve just made me.”

But he caught her hand, laced their fingers together. “Would stability really be so bad? To have a sense of home, of connection?” he asked softly, surprisingly genuine. “You’re desperately trying to keep your life together, Stiles, while individual aspects are fast fading away. When was the last time you had a real conversation with your mother? The last time that you felt like you actually had Scott’s full attention? When did you last feel completely safe?” He knew _exactly_ where her insecurities laid, where to pick at to get the greatest response, and it was almost insulting that it came so easily to him. “I can give you those things,” Peter whispered silkily. It was textbook seduction, as obvious as it was effective. Because she wanted those things, desperately ached for them. If Peter could give her that, would letting him into her life really be so bad?

But that was the double edged sword of seduction- it was so easy to focus on what was being offered that she didn’t want to consider the consequences. Of course it would be a bad idea to let him into her life! Peter was taciturn, his moods and motivations unknowable. He was a stone-cold _killer_ and made no apologies for it. Had, in fact, endangered and directly threatened her own life on multiple occasions. She couldn’t give in to a person she couldn’t even begin to forgive. And Peter had a lot of transgressions to make up for, didn’t he?

“I don’t want your help.”

He sighed, an edge of mirth lacing the sound, as though he found her resistance _endearing._ “You already have it.”

“You do realize that I’ll never accept this, right?” Stiles shimmied an elbow into his ribs and levered herself up to look him in the face again, her anger only increasing with the knowledge that he let her do it. “You can’t force me to be in your pack anymore than you could force Scott.”

Peter’s free hand darted out to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His grip was just this side of too tight- painful but not damaging -and his eyes were flashing a hellish, fiery red that cut through the gloom of the night. “You’re already in the pack, Stiles, it’s just a matter of getting you settled,” he bit out, determined and unrelenting. His grip soften slightly, but his expression remained hard. Slowly, deliberately, he raised their laced hands to his mouth, reminiscent of the threat he’d made the previous night. “And I have to say that I’m a little disappointed you would think I don’t have any means at my disposal.” His lips made contact with the outside of her wrist, worryingly sharp teeth far too close to breaking skin. “We both know I have at least one.”

Stiles broke out in a cold sweat. She could feel his fangs pressing into her, testing the surface tension of her skin. He could pierce her in seconds, sink his teeth in to drive his point home long before she could muster a reaction. His power, in this moment, was absolute and his message was clear: if she didn’t push it, he wouldn’t push it. Like last night, he was giving her an out while still forcing her hand. She could refuse him, but then he’d bite her and she’d still end up as a part of his pack. “Don’t,” she commanded firmly, tensing.

He lightly scraped a fang into her, raising a bloody welt over the delicate swell of her wrist bone. “Make no mistake, pup: Scott is able to resist solely because Allison anchors him. She’s human and he doesn’t want her to see him as a monster. Could _you_ do the same?” His tongue darted out to lave at the scrape- warm, wet pressure soothing the tiny hurt. “Who’s there to remain _human_ for in your life? Certainly not Scott.”

“Forcing my hand will not earn you my loyalty!” She wanted to pull her wrist away and inspect the cut. Something so small probably couldn’t turn her, but she had no doubts that his little warning would come with unwanted side-effects.

“Then _think,_ girl,” he snarled, flipping her hand around to expose the fragile skin of her inner wrist. “Find common ground, because we are fast approaching an impasse!”

But he was too close, his threats too grand. What compromise could ever exist between two people who wanted such completely disparate things? “I don’t know, I-”

“Look at the shape of the situation, the breadth of the circumstances.” Peter shook her, the hand at her jaw slipping around to cradle the back of her skull. “All my game pieces are in position- Scott, Lydia, Derek, your mother, Scott’s mother. You’re surrounded.” He drew her forward, looking ready to bite. “This is checkmate, baby-girl, try not to be a sore loser about it.”

“You don’t have any _control_ over your so-called pawns,” Stiles pointed out, bravado returning. “At best, this is just check, and I can work around a check.” He’d made the mistake of drawing a chess analogy and it reminded her of a very important fact. Strength was irrelevant in the face of tactical skill- a pawn could still take out a queen if the board was played right. Just because Peter had the clear physical advantage didn’t mean she was without options. He’d said it himself: she was clever. It was time to stop cowering and start _thinking._  

“You really don’t want to see how I’ll respond to an impasse, Stiles.”

“No. No, I don’t.” She considered him for a moment, took in the way he held her wrist so surely. He was clearly willing to do whatever it took to secure her at his side, and yet the careful way he held her, the way he’d threatened her more with implication than actual violence, belied a certain desire for her to accepting him willingly. And that desire could be exploited. “Look, is there... _Can_ we call a truce?”

He tilted his head, nostrils flaring, but his red gaze was curious. “To what end?”

“I’m still new to all this,” she explained. “I’m still adjusting to the fact that werewolves are even real! Give me time to learn about you.”

“Time to plot against me, you mean,” Peter glared, mouthing at her wrist impatiently.

“No,” _yes,_ “time to receive an education, a crash-course in werewolf packs and what it means to be in one.” Information she would desperately need if she had any hope of getting Peter out of her life. She needed to know the ins and outs of their social behavior, needed to know more about Peter in general before she could devise a plan.

He considered it for a long moment, allowing their hands to lower. “You realize that the best way to learn is by doing, right?”

“I’m prepared to make that compromise on the understanding that this is a trial-run, not a final decision.” It would be the perfect cover- she could lull him into a false sense of security while simultaneously gathering the necessary information and looking for possible weaknesses. “Can you give me that?”

“If you want to play house for a couple of weeks, I’ll indulge you,” he purred, his hand sifting lightly through her hair. “But I only have so much patience, and information always comes at a price.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left a comment or a kudos! I really appreciate the encouragement, particularly since I'm having so much fun writing this story.
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from Dream Theater's: Peruvian Skies.


	6. Candidate

 

** Candidate **

_"I'll make you a deal,_

_Like any other Candidate._

_You'll pretend we're walking home,_

_'Cause your future's at stake."_

 

Compromise left a sour taste in Peter’s mouth, but there was nothing for it. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t want Stiles _broken._ Molded into something new that was viable in a pack environment certainly, but not broken. And, while he didn’t think that she outright rejected the idea of being a werewolf, he did know that, in that time and that place, the bite would have _destroyed_ her. Forcing her in that moment would have forged a chasm between them that could never be bridged. So he’d given her what she’d requested because the idea of trying to put her back together after the fall out had been abhorrent- better to guide than repair.

He knew her compromise was just a play for time, an excuse to pump him for information and see if she could get him to betray himself. And that was okay really, because it met his only requirement: she willingly gave herself up as pack. With that small, albeit pretend, measure of assurance, he could work miracles. Like coaxing a stray, he could gentle her over time, ease her into the situation. Eventually the behavior would become so ingrained, she would never be able to look back and pinpoint exactly when it had _stopped_ being pretend. Then, and _only_ then, could he bite her.

That didn’t mean he had to stop intimidating her with it though. For now, it could provide a necessary leash, a method of coercion that would hopefully begin to turn more appealing than threatening.

Peter stretched his neck and sighed. This intimidation tactic was clearly the result of Alpha instinct- he far preferred something a little more Shakespearean and a lot less thuggish. He’d always been a master at the manipulative long-con. Through subtle control and careful words he could easily make people dance to his tune. Why resort to violence when he could shape and steer someone into thinking that they wanted exactly what he wanted?

In that light, he was clearly mismanaging Stiles. The Alpha in him was so determined to make her heel that it was blinding him to his better options. He spoke to her about family and comfort, but when push came to shove they were right back to dancing around the bite. There had to be a way to calm the violence raging in his head, to bring back a little more of the man he’d been, because the road to Stiles’ acceptance was already paved, Peter just had to stop taking detours.

She was starved for physical contact. It was such a small thing, so easily taken for granted, yet it was _absolutely_ the key to her compliance. Stiles wanted to touch and be touched, to soak in the knowledge that she was safe and cared for and, for whatever reason, she felt she needed a physical connection to maintain an emotional bond with others. It was a peculiarly wolf-like attitude for someone so innately human. And he was more than happy to fulfill that need because the more he touched her, the more she smelled like him.

Laying with her in that darkened bedroom had soothed him more than he wanted to admit. For the first time since the fire he’d felt grounded, felt like he was part of a real pack again. Her scent had surrounded him, just as his scent had surrounded her, and it had felt _right._ She’d provided him with something to hold on to, a foothold in reality that would help him rebuild the Hale pack. And he knew he could give to her what she gave to him- the opportunity for more, to reclaim something lost to tragedy -if he could just find the patience that had once been so much a part of who he was. And it wouldn’t be that hard to convince Stiles- not if her desire for contact extended so far as to not fight him out of her room -he just had to stop backing her into corners where her only available options would fight his Alpha instincts. 

They both needed to dance a _masterfully careful_ dance, but if they could manage the complexity then the world would open before them. Two essentially compatible desires melded into one unrelenting force- he couldn’t ask for a better pack. Because with Stiles came Scott, and with the children came their parents, and by then Derek wouldn’t be able to stay away. The Hale pack would be rekindled- six strong with the possibility of many more -and all thanks to Stiles.

Despite his plans, Peter knew Derek was still a wildcard. His nephew might never forgive him for Laura’s death, but on the other hand he knew that Derek had always been fairly easy to manipulate. Something about the familial bond between them blinded the younger man, made him _weak_ where Peter was concerned. All Peter had to do to ensure his nephew’s interest in joining the pack was to tell him he wasn’t welcome. Derek would bend himself over backwards to join after that, driven past all logic by the tempting idea of _belonging._

It was really almost too easy- too easy to find Derek, too easy to make him listen, and far too easy to plant the seed of rebellion.

The hard part for Peter was tailoring the conversation. Derek was a child of few words and poor communication- too much contact at once would make Derek suspicious and taciturn. Well, more so than usual, at any rate, which was really kind of a shame, because Peter could fully admit that he loved the sound of his own voice. Still, there were lures to cast and he knew the perfect bait for Derek: short and to the point. “We need to talk.”

“Like we talked in the hospital?” His nephew’s bitter answer was not unexpected, but it was strange how he danced around the subject of Laura; that really should have been the first accusation to spill from Derek’s lips. And yet, perhaps it _wasn’t_ so unusual; the boy was rudderless- no home, no family, no purpose. Unless he counted Scott among his allies, that made him an Omega, a place no werewolf wanted to be. Instinct could be softening over his sister’s death in an effort to appeal to the Alpha before him.

Peter held out his hands placatingly and adopted an open, sympathetic expression. “I know you’re angry with me, Derek. You have every right to be.” Chancing closeness, he eased forward and laid a careful hand on his nephew’s shoulder, the very picture of a concerned family member. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”

Derek was surprised by that, his eyes round and a little panicked. His nephew played a tough game, but when it came down to it Peter knew that the kid was terrified of being truly alone. Most wolves were. He was banking on that fear overriding Derek’s common sense. 

“What?”

Peter smiled benignly, acting for all the world like this was a big favor that was really in Derek’s best interest. “I’m letting you out,” he explained, voice soothing. “Despite our statuses, despite our familial connections, I’m _letting_ you _leave_ the pack.”

And Derek, _bless him,_ immediately latched on to the bait. “You’re running me out of Beacon Hills?”

“I can’t imagine why you’d want to _stay,_ but it’s your decision.” There it was, his simple but effective little trap: permission to hang around and watch the pack rebuild without him. He gave it a month, _tops,_ before Derek was begging to be let back in. To be sure the pot was sweet enough, Peter firmly added, “Just don’t interfere.”

And that was it, that was all it would take where his nephew was concerned. The kid had been without a pack for far too long, and Laura’s death was still too recent for him to ignore the call of family. To be forced to watch from the outside as the Hale pack grew strong again? Derek wouldn’t be able to resist wanting to belong to that, even if it meant accepting Peter as his Alpha.

So that was one item off his list of worries, the easiest problem dealt with in good time. Next was housing. Nurse Jenny’s apartment wasn’t viable, not with her “missing”. He would have to stage the place to look like a robbery gone wrong and hope that her advanced state of decomposition didn’t raise any inconvenient questions. 

Which meant he was out of a home. Not that finding an apartment of his own would be difficult, but it would mean reassuming a public identity. Which probably wasn’t a bad idea, what with the Sheriff in his life and all- it wouldn’t help him along any to fail the inevitable background checks she would run on him. He didn’t think she’d appreciate finding out that Peter Hale was still supposed to be a comatose burn-victim; without the proper credentials, she’d probably just assume he’d stollen the identity. 

He didn’t mind the idea of taking charge of his personal assets again though. It would be necessary in order to purchase property; he wanted to establish some common pack territory while he decided what to do with the Hale house, assuming that the State hadn’t taken control of it. What he did mind was the hassle of _finding_ good common territory and the knowledge that a man waking up from six years in a comatose state would gain him a lot of attention he didn’t want.

 

* * *

 

Stiles dreamt of fire that night- of smoke and ash and the cloying sweetness of burning paper. The Hale fire had weighed heavily on her mind ever since Derek had returned to Beacon Hills, but this was the first time she’d dreamt of it. And that was the only saving grace of the hellish scene before her: that she knew she was actually safe in her own bed.

It was a _small_ comfort in the face of the world around her. She’d seen the Hale house enough to know that she was on the ground floor, just off the front entrance. Stiles had deliberately tried not to assign names to any of the locations within the Hale house, had tried to ignore the tragedy by distancing herself from it, but even then she’d known this room was a library. She had wondered about it, on occasion, what it must have looked like in its prime- even on fire it was stunning. Dark floors, ivory walls, gold and red accents offsetting the hundreds of leather-bound books that lined the shelves, and right between two beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows was a massive desk.

Peter sat at that desk, looking younger but no less _infuriated_ as he stared at the flames. The fire had already cut off the only entrance to the room, spreading quickly as it roared from book to book. Soon the air filled with smoke- choking, burning, thick -the knowledge of centuries fueling a ravenous cloud of white-hot death. Screams filled the air- angry, exhausted, frightened, young and old alike -but there was no way to get to them. Peter had one option only: escape through the windows and pray there wasn’t a hunting party outside waiting to ambush him.

He busted a pane of glass with his elbow- smoke pouring from the room in a great rush -but never made it further. Just as he was about to vault from the library, the ceiling gave an angry groan and collapsed, trapping Peter under the burning wreckage. 

Werewolf or not, Stiles had to wonder how he’d survived that. Assuming that was the way it had actually happened, of course. She sincerely had doubts that her imagination could create a spot-on replication of the Hale fire. Aside from Peter, everyone who had witnessed the event was dead, so she simply had no way of knowing how events had gone down.

Valiently ignoring her disturbing dream, Stiles awoke to a subtle throbbing in her wrist and a dead weight in her chest. Last night’s chat with Peter had put her options into stark relief: namely, she didn’t really have any, other than to bide her time. Which was fine, she was good at that when the situation called for it. The problem would be how she was meant to break it to Scott. Her impatience couldn’t begin to hold a candle to his, and she knew he’d freak out at the thought of a truce, regardless of how farcical it actually was.

In the end, she decided that her best option was just to ambush him and get the truth out into the open. She’d never been all that tactful when dealing with sensitive information anyway, so the sooner she had this off her chest, the better. Especially since she’d come to a pretty firm conclusion last night. As she’d laid awake in her bed, stubbornly trying to ignore the light scent of aftershave that still clung to her sheets, Stiles had realized that she had no choice but to play into Peter’s hands. The truce they’d struck was necessary and she’d reap her rewards in time, but it came with far too many fringe benefits for him. Namely, Scott. She wasn’t going to pretend that they weren’t a packaged deal- they’d been best friends too long for her to think otherwise -which meant _her_ compliance bought _Scott’s_ compliance as well. 

It was going to be difficult to sell him on the idea, but once she explained herself, Stiles was fairly certain Scott would be onboard. After all, learning about the enemy was their best shot at eventually taking Peter down. Scott lived very much in the moment, but even he would have to see that this plan created the least amount of risk while offering the greatest reward.

Mind made up, Stiles waited for the beauty of their traditional Saturday gaming marathon to spring the plan on him. No time like the present, right? They were about halfway through one of their weirder co-ops when she finally worked up the nerve to blurt out, “So, hypothetically, what would you say if I told you that I managed to strike a compromise with Captain Crazy Pants?”

Scott didn’t even look away from the screen, his fingers frantically mashing buttons. “I’d ask what the hell you’re talking about?”

“Well, this is off to a great start,” Stiles rolled her eyes and turned the game off. “I’m talking about Peter.”

“You met with him?!” Scott all but screeched, clutching at his controller like it was his only lifeline.

She rubbed at her wrist nervously, glad that her hoodie was covering the small scratch there. “More like he snuck into my room while our mothers were still out living it up.”

“What happened?” In the blink of an eye, he was in her face, turning her head this way and that as if checking for bruises. It actually would have been kind of heartwarming if it weren’t threatening to give her whiplash. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“Ease up, fido,” she grumbled, batting his hands away. “Aside from Peter’s overbearing presence, the worst of it was just a fit of existential terror. And some cuddling, but we are _so_ not getting into that right now, Scott.”

He looked horrified and very much like he was about to argue, but one glance at her mortified glare had him swallowing the fight down. “So what happened?”

Here it was: the moment of truth. “You that old saying, ‘Know your enemy?’” All of their problems summed up in one neat little cliche.

Scott’s face paled. “Oh god, you didn’t!” He fell back down into the couch, looking stunned.

Stiles wasn’t sure why, but his reaction made her feel defensive. What else had she been supposed to do? Considering it had been a showdown between the weak, fleshy human and a damn-near-immortal Alpha, she thought she’d negotiated quite well. Sure, it had more or less been an abridged scene out of _Faust,_ but that seemed more or less appropriate since Peter was the closest thing to Mephistopheles in their lives. 

She gave Scott a dirty look and replied tightly, “Derek made it really clear that Peter’s trying to build a pack, which Peter then confirmed. Specifically, he wants us, so we have two options.” She began ticking off on her fingers. “One, we can fight him tooth and nail, risking the _security and lives_ of everyone around us. Or two, we can play along for the opportunity to discover his weaknesses.”

“You talked to Derek, too?” Scott asked, incredulous.

_“Really?”_ Stiles snorted. “That’s the part you focus on?”

He gave her a brotherly glare, but dropped the subject. “So what, we just string Peter along? Lull him into a false sense of security?”

“While getting a first rate education in werewolves,” she pointed out. It really couldn’t be overstated since she hardly knew _anything_ about their wolfy situation and Scott knew even _less._ “There has to be something we can use against him.”

He looked uneasy and she couldn’t blame him. Their interactions with Peter had only further proved how dangerous the elder Hale was. “Seems pretty flimsy.”

“We’re sixteen, Scott, and recently dropped into a whole world of the supernatural that we don’t _fully_ understand,” she replied. It was a truth they had done their best to gloss over because it just seemed easier, or maybe safer, not to involve anyone else, and their dealings with either of the Hales hadn’t really convinced them otherwise. But this was a big problem facing them and it would require an unorthodox solution. “Our options are severely limited, okay?”

“I still don’t like it,” he said stubbornly. 

She sighed, because this was really the crux of the matter. Peter, in all his infinite creepery, had not demanded that Scott follow where Stiles tread. He might _expect_ it, to be honest, but it hadn’t been an explicit part of their truce, which meant that it wasn’t _technically_ necessary. If Scott wanted an out she could give him one, she was just kind of hoping that he was willing to suffer with her. “Look, I didn’t sign you up for anything- you can choose not to be a part of the compromise,” she explained carefully. “I just think it might look strange enough to blow my cover if we suddenly aren’t hanging out anymore.”

Scott looked conflicted for all of a minute, loyalty quickly winning out over fear. “What do you think he’ll have us do?”

And that was exactly why they’d been best friends for longer than she could remember: even facing a known supernatural serial killer, Scott still had her back. “Ostensibly? Teach us what it means to be in a werewolf pack.” Stiles paused to acknowledge that she really had no idea what that meant or entailed. “I’m kinda hoping it’s less like Fight Club and more like Girl Scouts, but we’ll see.”

Scott didn’t seem particularly heartened by that news, but then he’d already been getting the bloody sales-pitch from Peter. Instead, he opted to change the subject. “Any news on Lydia?”

Stiles shook her head and sighed. “The doctor’s are baffled; every time they get her stabilized she goes into shock. I overheard mom saying that they can’t figure out if it’s just from trauma or if the blood transfusion somehow made matters worse.” She bit her lip- it was hard to talk about Lydia. They weren’t exactly friends, but they could be, given time, and it made her sick to know that she hadn’t been able to do anything to save the sassy blonde from a wholly undeserved mauling. “We should go visit her today; maybe you can figure out if she’s turning into a werewolf.”

“That would go over well with Jackson,” Scott tried to lighten the mood.

“Joke all you like, buddy,” she gave him an unamused look, “but we might end up stuck with them as pack-mates until we can take Peter down. Lydia I don’t mind spending time with, but Jackson can go jump in a ditch for all I care. And if I am forced to spend _more_ time with that pretentious asshole than I already do, I may just snap and try to _strangle_ Peter with my _bare hands.”_

That news didn’t go over very well, particularly since Scott knew she wasn’t really joking. Her low tolerance for Jackson was legendary, dating all the way back to Pre-K; it had mellowed a bit since the start of high school, but only because she’d done her best to avoid him. Sensing it wasn’t a matter to be pushed just now, Scott changed the subject again. “Any news about Kate?”

“It’s all hush-hush right now, particularly since mom thinks I’m traumatized- which I _am,_ by the way.” Stiles still felt the imprint of Kate’s hand around the column of her neck, squeezing viciously every time she thought about the rogue Argent. “Luckily, mom’s not nearly as quiet as she thinks she is when she’s hungover.” Apparently, ladies’ night out had been a roaring success, although she still didn’t have any concrete details on what had happened. “As of this morning, they are still tracking Kate’s financial information and trying to get a location on her vehicle. By this afternoon, they’ll have received an anonymous tip about a body at the old Hale house.”

Scott grimaced. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“She’s been officially missing and wanted for questioning for _over_ twenty-four hours, Scott, it’s time to put the matter to rest before the Argents change their minds and bury her themselves,” she replied, worried that, for some reason or another, the case would go cold, the evidence would go missing, and Kate would still win even from beyond the grave. Derek had been through hell and he deserved closure. Besides, God knew what would happen if Peter felt his revenge hadn’t been completed. “I’m tired of my mom walking on eggshells around me because she thinks I’m in some state of super delayed reaction. The sooner they have Kate, the sooner the official investigation can start. I have it on pretty good authority that the police have some solid evidence to prove Kate’s their cold-case Arsonist.”

Scott looked suddenly hopeful, a goofy smile pulling at his lips. “Do you think they’ll be able to find evidence that Peter was her killer? That would solve a lot of our problems!”

“If only,” she sighed, remembering what the deranged Alpha had told her just last night. “He made it pretty clear that werewolves don’t test out on the human spectrum. At best the lab would classify her attacker as an animal; at worst, contaminated evidence. Besides, even if they could prove it was Peter, I don’t think the BHPD has the equipment to arrest a homicidal Alpha werewolf, let alone detain him.”

And it was a little sick that, later as they made their way to the hospital, Stiles couldn’t help but pray that they didn’t have any evidence to implicate Peter. She tried telling herself that it was because she didn’t want her mother anywhere near him, but it didn’t quite feel like the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thesis project is threatening to eat me alive, so I wouldn't be surprised if the next chapter is more than a week out. Sorry- the Peter/Stiles interaction I have planned should make up for it though!
> 
> Chapter title and lyrics from David Bowie's: Candidate.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is both dedicated to and inspired by Ceris_Malfoy. I found the prompt, an accompanying drabble, and the basic !verse groundwork on her tumblr and couldn't stop myself from writing it. I also want to apologize to the self-same author- I am a HUGE fan of your writing (as I said, you are the reason I now ship Steter), so I feel guilty that I rewrote the section you had already written. Our styles are pretty different though, and I didn’t want a noticeable transition to break up the flow, so I hope you don’t mind. 
> 
> Story and chapter title taken from Abney Park's song, Scheherazade.
> 
> I already have a decent portion of this story written, but I'm going to post it in steps since I don't know how often I'll be able to write given that the spring semester is starting up.
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments or questions, but be advised that kink shaming of any sort will not be tolerated.


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